


Paid In Full

by Jenksel



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Abandonment, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Gen, Past Child Abuse, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 07:31:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11869548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenksel/pseuds/Jenksel
Summary: Jenkins knows first-hand that family ain't easy.  (My theory on how Jenkins got the scar on his face)





	Paid In Full

479 AD  
Galahad’s Sixth Year

The nurse approached her mistress quietly, making just enough noise with her footsteps so as not to startle the woman when she spoke. Queen Elaine had her back to the doorway as she watched the rough waves of the ocean slam rhythmically against the rocky, desolate shoreline below.

The nurse stopped a few feet away and gave a quick curtsey. The small boy next to her looked around at the unfamiliar room curiously with wide, bright dark brown eyes. 

“Your Highness?”

The woman at the window spoke without turning around. “I did not send for that.”

The nurse glanced at the boy nervously. “I’m sorry, my lady, but....I thought....” The old servant took a deep breath to calm her nerves.

“Today is his sixth birthday, lady. I thought that perhaps, this year, you might wish to see him and....”

“Take it away,” came the icy response from the window. “Take that little bastard away and never bring it into my presence again.”

The nurse glanced again at the child, and she saw that he understood his mother’s words.

“Please, lady, have pity—he is only a child, and you are his mother...”

“Take it away!” shouted the queen. “Are you so stupid that you do not understand that it’s that little brat’s fault I am banished from court and imprisoned here in this godforsaken place? I was the queen, and now, because of that horrid little beast, I am an exile in my own land! It is a curse upon my life. It should never have been born! I should have killed it the moment I knew it was in my womb! Take it away—NOW!” 

The boy, frightened by the outburst, hid himself behind the skirts of his nurse, his mother’s harsh words searing themselves into his memory.

The old nurse gave a perfunctory curtsy, turned and quickly rushed the child out of the queen’s chambers. Poor little mite, she thought as she reproached herself for foolishly bringing the boy with her. She should have known what Elaine would say. She had hated her son from the moment he had been born, and always would. Nothing would ever change her mind.

The next morning the nurse was ordered to have Galahad’s things packed and ready for transport by the end of the week. Queen Elaine was ridding herself of this constant reminder of her deception, shame and guilt by sending him into his own exile.

 

482 AD  
Galahad’s 9th Year

Mother Angmar, an elderly, distant kinswoman of Queen Elaine and Abbess of St. Peter’s Convent, glared distastefully at the boy in front of her. So, she thought ruefully, that stupid little whore has dumped her shame on MY doorstep. It was typical of the girl—flighty, emotional, not a brain in her head. How she thought she could trap a morally devoid libertine like Lancelot du Lac was beyond Angmar’s understanding. And it was just like the little fool to avoid taking any sort of responsibility for her actions—like expecting someone else to raise her bastard for her. This brat had brought a tremendous amount of embarrassment and dishonor to the family’s name and reputation. Elaine was lucky that all her husband, King Pelleas, had done was to banish her. She could be dead right now, and the family could have been completely ruined financially, had their lands taken away. The old woman sighed. One of the many privileges of being a queen, she supposed.

Angmar may have to raise the boy, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. The child was undisciplined and willful, no more than she should have expected from the ill-bred offspring of such parents. Well, she would soon correct those faults, for the child’s own sake. Mother Angmar was a firm believer in discipline, especially where children were concerned. Did not Sacred Scripture warn that to spare the rod was to spoil the child? 

“Come here, boy,” she snapped. The child, startled, approached slowly.

“Stop dawdling!” Angmar said impatiently. The boy hurried his steps to stand before her. She stared down into his face. To the eight year-old Galahad, being swathed in black and stooped beneath a large dowager’s hump, her long aquiline nose hooking over her mouth, Mother Abbess looked exactly like a buzzard. He giggled at the image without thinking. He immediately realized his mistake, but it was too late. Angmar slapped him, hard.

“So you think this is humorous, do you?” the old abbess said coldly. “You think it a joke to steal food from the kitchen outside of mealtimes? You know that thievery is a sin. Do you expect me to harbour a thief beneath my roof?”

“No, Mother Abbess,” he said quietly, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I did not mean to steal, but I was hungry...”

“Silence!” she barked. “You know when mealtimes are; you receive more than enough food to keep you alive at those times. Gluttony is also a sin, Galahad. I will not tolerate gluttony beneath my roof any more than I will tolerate thievery. You cannot possibly excuse such behaviour, so do not compound your sins by lying. Sister Sioned...” Angmar addressed the nun waiting by the door. “Fetch me the rod.”

Sister Sioned balked. “Mother Abbess, is it really necessary...?” But the abbess cut her off.

“Do as you are told, Sister!” Angmar snapped. Reluctantly, the young nun brought the woman the thick, supple willow stick that the abbess regularly used to discipline the little boy. 

“Now, remove your shirt, Galahad,” she ordered brusquely. Knowing that to disobey would only result in a harsher beating, the boy took off his linen shirt and turned, presenting his thin bare back to the abbess. All too familiar with what was coming, he fixed his eyes on a distant spot on the floor and bit his lip to keep from crying out—that would result in more strokes, too. Angmar grasped the boy by his thick mop of hair to keep him still, then thrashed him relentlessly with the willow stick. He received twelve strokes in all—six for stealing food, six for being a glutton. 

 

Sister Sioned took Galahad back to his room. Mother Abbess had ordered that, in addition to the whipping, he was to go straight to bed without any supper that night. Galahad hadn’t uttered a sound or shed a tear throughout the whipping or as they walked the corridors back to his room, but as soon as his door was closed Galahad burst into tears and ran to Sioned for comforting, quietly sobbing in her arms. Sioned fought back tears of her own. She had been put in charge of Galahad’s care since his arrival to the convent almost three years ago, and she quickly came to love the little boy as though he was her own son. The child was so starved for affection and kindness that he soon became attached to Sioned and loved her in return as though she was his mother. It broke her heart to see him so mistreated. It wasn’t his fault that his parents were adulterers, why did they all punish him for their sins? Sioned had grown up with five brothers; she knew first-hand how rambunctious little boys could be. Mother Abbess had no such experience with children. She expected them to act like adults the moment they were born. Sioned had fantasized about simply taking Galahad and run away from this hateful convent, but she knew that would never work. She was only an uneducated peasant, an orphan with nowhere else to go except possibly her mother’s pagan tribe. She would never be able to provide for him properly on her own. His powerful relatives would never allow it in any case. 

“Why do they all hate me so much, Sister?” he asked piteously his snuffles. “Am I truly so bad?” 

Sioned dried his tears. “They do not hate you, Galahad,” she lied, but he knew better.

“Yes, they do,” he murmured miserably, hiccupping. “Am I truly a curse?” Sioned caressed his tear-stained face.

“No, little raven,” she said kindly, using her pet name for him, because of his dark eyes and hair, and for his cleverness and intelligence. “Who told you such a thing?”

“My mother said that I am a curse. She said that I should not have been born. She said that I am a mistake.”

Damn that woman for saying such things to her own child! Sioned thought angrily. She drew the little boy into a tight hug, being careful of his wounded back. “It is not true, little raven! Do not listen to such lies! You are not bad. And it is they who are the cursed, for treating such a precious treasure so shabbily!”

She then gently put some salve on his ugly red welts She then instructed him to put on his nightclothes and say his prayers while she ran quick errand. Sioned returned a short time later with some bread and cheese, and a small mug of ale.

“Here, little raven, I have brought you something to eat.” Galahad’s eyes grew fearful at the sight of the prohibited food.

“But Mother Abbess...!” he began, nearly in tears again at the thought of the beating he—and his beloved Sister—was sure to get if the old woman caught them. 

“Hush, Galahad,” she said, stroking his hair reassuringly. “No one saw me, I promise. My little raven needs food if he is to become big and strong, does he not?”

She tucked him into his bed and sat on the edge next to him. “Now, I must go soon, my sweet, but I think I might have just enough time for a story while you eat, if you are you are feeling up to it?” 

Galahad nodded, a bright smile lighting up his face. He loved Sister Sioned’s stories. She never told the stories from Sacred Scripture like the other nuns always did; her tales were always those of the old gods and heroes, and they were much more exciting.

“Will you tell the story of the Battle of the Trees, Sister?” he asked eagerly.

“Of course, little raven,” she replied, stroking his thick, black hair. Whatever you like!”

Mother Abbes Angmar frowned to herself as she eavesdropped on the pair from outside the door. The next week she sent Sister Sioned away permanently to another convent.

 

487 AD  
Galahad’s 14th Year

One day four years later, a wealthy knight and his entourage arrived at the convent. The knight, a haughty, proud, powerful man, informed the old abbess that he was the boy’s father, Sir Lancelot du Lac, and that he was there to claim the boy. He wanted to make a knight of his son and take him to the king’s court at Camelot. Mother Abbess Angmar was glad to be rid of him. After Sioned was sent away, Galahad became increasingly wearisome and morose with each passing year. It was also becoming unseemly for a boy his age to be domiciled in a convent full of women. 

Du Lac made his son a knight on the spot, and it was the beginning of a grueling period of training, lessons and lectures. For the first time in his life, however, when Galahad heard that his own father had come for him, he felt the flicker of hope and excitement stir inside of him that he was finally going to be accepted, wanted—perhaps even loved—by his family. 

That was soon extinguished. His father, he learned, was a cold, distant, ambitious man. He made it very clear to the young knight that Du Lac’s ultimate goal was for a member of the family to one day sit on the throne of Britain as the High King. The boy’s tainted birth precluded him from kingship himself, but perhaps one of Galahad’s future sons would achieve the prize. The boy’s duty now was to carry on and perpetuate the family’s fortune and reputation, to build and further solidify the family’s power and position within the realm. His father reinforced that message through harsh beatings and other punishments whenever his son failed to live up to those expectations. 

Galahad grew hard, built a high and thick wall around his heart, and kept his feelings and thoughts jealously to himself. He accepted whatever abuse was meted out to him, because he finally came to believe that it was all he deserved. What else could explain a lifetime of misfortune such as he had experienced? He tried to crush and repress his true nature, which was kind, thoughtful, nurturing—such a nature was weak and womanish, according to Lancelot. He tried with all his might to make himself over into what his father wanted: Harsh, calculating, unfeeling, brutal. 

 

488 AD  
Galahad’s 15th Year

Galahad gripped the reins in his left hand so tightly his fingers ached. His right hand rested on the pommel of the sheathed sword hanging from his left hip, his long fingers drumming fretfully against its red hilt in anticipation of drawing it from its scabbard. His horse, sensing his master’s anxiety, pawed the ground nervously. All around him were similarly mounted and armed knights, all of them experienced, battle-hardened veterans of King Arthur’s Round Table. All except Galahad.

The tall, gangly youth was only minutes away from engaging in his first real battle. Galahad was secretly terrified. Not so much of injury or even death, but of failing this ultimate trial by fire, of somehow not living up to the high expectations and standards of his father, of King Arthur, and of the others that had been instilled in him since his arrival at Camelot. If he came up short in any way in this fight, Galahad didn’t know how he would be able to face them all again, especially his father. Lancelot made it clear to Galahad that he would tolerate no failure. He expected Galahad to kill as many of the enemy as possible and acquit himself honorably on the field. Lancelot was a hard, unforgiving man with those who disappointed him. The boy knew that Lancelot was not a model father and had many faults, but he was the only relative who had shown any interest in Galahad. He so deeply craved his father’s love and approval so much that he was determined to do whatever it took to prove his worth and to please his father.

Their enemy on this day was Cynfyn, the king of Ergyng. His kingdom bordered on Arthur’s, and he had been raiding into Arthur’s lands for many months now. The pagan Ergyngi claimed that land as theirs by ancestral right and refused to acknowledge Arthur’s sovereignty. Arthur had had enough; heeding the pleas of his lords in the borderlands for relief, he determined to put an end to Cynfyn’s pillaging once and for all. He sent his enemy a declaration of war, and now Cynfyn’s army was on its way to meet them. 

The Ergyngi, men and women, appeared like ghosts from out of the trees on the other side of the battlefield. Compared to Arthur’s warriors, they were a wild, undisciplined mob, their bodies painted all over with blue woad. They screamed their war chants and beat their weapons on their shields, creating a cacophony of noise that chilled Galahad’s blood. Licking his lips nervously, he glanced at the other knights. They merely sat on their horses, faces like stone, showing no reaction whatsoever, and Galahad mimicked them. He wondered if any of them were as frightened as he was, or if this fear was a sign of his weakness as a warrior.

After several minutes of allowing the enemy to shriek themselves hoarse, King Arthur drew his sword and raised it high. The Ergyngi fell silent, waiting. Just when Galahad thought he would no longer be able to tolerate the tension, Arthur dropped his blade with a roar. The men around him suddenly spurred their horses, and with their own battle cries and their own swords drawn, they thundered out across the field at breakneck speed to engage the enemy.

Galahad’s horse didn’t wait for his master’s spurs; as soon as Arthur gave the signal and the other horses started forward, the well-trained roan launched itself forward, nearly unseating the startled Galahad. Holding onto the reins tightly, he struggled to draw his sword as the beast burned across the open ground. He quickly regained his seat and pulled his weapon free of the scabbard, his heart pounding almost as loudly as the horses’ hooves beneath him. He realized he wasn’t breathing and forced himself to do so. 

Within seconds he was face to face with his first enemy combatant, a large man with a long, thick spear designed to take down charging horses. Galahad pulled the reins, slowing his mount and turning him away from the spear. The enemy charged towards him, aiming for the young knight’s chest. Instinctively, Galahad swung his sword down across the shaft of the spear, cutting off the sharp head before the warrior could inflict any damage with it. The brute shifted his grip on the pole and, with a hair-raising scream, swung it like a club as he tried to unhorse Galahad. The young man reined his charger around and lashed out again wildly with his sword. 

It was a lucky blow. The razor-sharp blade bit deeply into the man’s neck, nearly severing his head from his body. He fell with a thud to the ground, a scarlet plume of his blood spraying Galahad and his horse as he went down. For a moment the knight only sat there, stunned by what he had just done. He watched, horrified, as the warrior clawed at the ground, his legs thrashing about trying to regain his feet as his life’s blood gushed out of him and soaked the ground.

Galahad looked dazedly at the bloody weapon in his hand, felt the wet blood spatter on his face. He dropped down from his horse’s back and rushed over to the dying man, yanking his own helmet off as he knelt next to the dying man. He dropped his sword and futilely tried to staunch the flow of blood with his hands. “I’m sorry!” he cried hoarsely. “Please, forgive me!”

The Ergyngi’s green eyes were wide and rolling about in terror until they finally found Galahad’s shocked ones and locked onto them. As blood poured from his mouth, he tried to speak through his now useless voice box, but all that came out were gurgling, strangled gasps. Galahad stared helplessly as he watched the flame suddenly die out in the Ergyngi’s eyes. 

As the understanding sank in that he had just killed a man, the young knight began to feel nauseous. He realized that he could taste the metallic tang of the warrior’s blood in his mouth, and he leaned over quickly and vomited what little he had in his stomach. He sat upright, retching and choking on his bile. Opening his eyes, he was startled to see another Ergyngi, a young boy a year or two younger than Galahad, a few yards away. He was loosely holding a spear of his own. The boy stood stock still, staring at the dead man. When he felt Galahad’s eyes on him, he raised his gaze to the knight and stared at him. 

“He’s my father,” he said, his thin voice was flat. “You killed my father.”

Galahad stood and stumbled quickly to the stunned boy. He stood in front of him and grasped his shoulders, shaking him roughly to get his attention.

“I’m sorry!” he said, emotion choking him. “I’m sorry! Forgive me! I....” Galahad didn’t know what else to say. He shook the boy again.

“Go!” he said suddenly. “Go! Get away from here, now! Go back to your family, before you, too, are killed!”

The boy stood and only stared at him mutely. Galahad shook him even harder.

“GO!” he yelled. The boy blinked, then turned to run away from Galahad, but a dagger suddenly buried itself deep into his back, felling him instantly. By the finely-wrought haft of the weapon, Galahad recognized the dagger as being his father’s.

Before he could react, he felt an iron grip on his upper arm and he was jerked around. Lancelot’s face was dark with rage, his glare sharper than his dagger’s blade. 

“What is this!” he hissed through his teeth. “You weep over this savage like a woman? And you let another go free to continue killing our men?” He punctuated his words with a vicious cuff up the side of Galahad’s head with his gauntleted hand, knocking him to the ground. 

His head ringing, Galahad tried to protest. “He was only a boy, Father! Younger even than I! I...I didn’t think it right....”

A furious kick to his side that broke two of his ribs silenced the young man as he gasped in pain.

“COWARD!” the older man shouted. “Nits grow into lice, you fool! They are the enemy! Their age does not matter—You KILL them! You do not think about it, you simply kill them! You do not weep over them like a weakling, you do not show them mercy! YOU KILL THEM!” Lancelot kicked the boy away from him in disgust. 

“Bah! I should’ve known that a cur will not change his spots! Worthless bastard! I will not allow your cowardice to ruin my plans or bring further shame upon my house! By God, I’ll teach you...!” 

Enraged, Lancelot hauled the injured boy up onto his feet. At the same time, like a striking serpent, Lancelot drew his sword and smashed its pommel into his son’s face. Galahad’s vision went white, blinded by the explosion of pain. He heard the bridge of his nose crack sickeningly as it snapped beneath the force of the blow, and felt the warmth of his own blood as it flowed down his face and throat. Stunned, he fell to his knees, his hands instinctively going to his face. 

Lancelot moved to stand over his son, and he raised his sword to strike again. “I see now that it was a mistake to think that, even with MY blood in your veins, you could be made into anything better than what you are,” he spat. “It is high time to correct the mistake your lying, bitch-in-heat mother and I made all those years ago!” 

Galahad watched as the sword began to rush downward towards his head. Suddenly, another dagger flew from behind the young knight and struck Lancelot’s right shoulder, causing him to drop his sword mid-swing. As Lancelot fell backwards, a blue blur flashed past Galahad and landed on top of the fallen knight, and he heard the sound of something striking the side of the man’s helmet, hard. He heard a surprised grunt from Lancelot, and he fell still. Galahad could see by the rise and fall of his chest that he was only unconscious. For an instant he felt a pang of disappointment that Lancelot wasn't dead; it was quickly replaced by guilt for even thinking such a thing. 

Galahad looked around in shock. Dead knights, foot soldiers and horses from both armies were all around him; severed limbs, split skulls, the spilled guts of disemboweled men and animals littered the field; pools of darkening blood gathering wherever there was a depression in the dirt. The reek of urine and feces competed with the screams, weeping and babbled prayers of the wounded and the dying. Ravens and blowflies were already gathering and feasting on the dead. 

Galahad remained kneeling, his face and head throbbing with excruciating pain. He wondered how many seconds of life he had left before the warrior struck him down and he joined these dead on the battlefield. He felt no fear at the prospect of dying, only relief that he would soon be free of this life. All of the desperate longing, the striving to prove himself, the rejections, the disappointments, the failures, the abandonments—he would be free of it all soon. 

He dropped his head and waited patiently for the sharp pain of the enemy’s blade to enter his body and cut this unhappy life short. 

“Galahad!” A vaguely familiar voice called his name amidst the chaos raging around him. He looked up and saw the Ergyngi warrior, a lightly-armored woman with braided hair and whorls of blue woad covering her body, standing in front of him. “Little raven! Do you not recognize me?”

Galahad’s eyes widened in disbelief as he suddenly recognized her.

“Sister Sioned?” he gasped hoarsely.

She dropped to her knees and took the young man’s head in her mud and blood-caked hands, looking into his eyes. 

“But....how are you here?” he asked, still stunned. She smiled wryly. 

“I ran away from the Christians. The Ergyngi are my mother’s people. We heard that all of Arthur’s knights would be here today. I joined Cynfyn’s warriors hoping I might find you again.”

Dismay and revulsion suddenly filled the battered young knight’s face. Seeing his old friend, the only person who ever truly loved him, in the midst of this death and suffering, overwhelmed him. 

“Oh, Sister! I failed!” he cried, his anguish spilling out of him like a fountain. “I took a life, I have killed another! I have proven them all right about me! I failed my father, my family! I am a failure as a knight! I have no stomach for killing. I AM nothing but a mistake! I curse the day I was born!”

Sioned shook the distraught young man’s shoulders. “Have you already forgotten how much I loved you, little raven?” she asked sharply. “I have heard the stories about what your father has done to you, how he has tried to twist and warp your good spirit into something selfish and cruel, and I can see in your eyes that the stories were true. I saw what you did when you killed that warrior over there, I saw what you did with the boy. Remorse for taking a life is not a weakness, mercy shown to an enemy is not cowardice! Your true nature is good, and it is too strong for such wickedness. You have not failed, little raven, that pig lying on the ground over yonder is the one who has failed!” She tossed her head disdainfully in the direction of the unconscious knight.

She wrapped her arms around the tall young man and held him in a tight embrace, a strange pair in the middle of the bloody field. He wrapped his own log arms around Sioned and buried his head in her shoulder, like he used to do when he was a small child. He felt once again the peace and contentment, security and unconditional love that he had been starved of for so long flow into him like a soft, warm light. He felt saturated with it as it healed his broken spirit like a magic spell. It erased the scars left on his soul by those who were supposed to love him this way but failed to do so. It drew the poison of self-hatred, uncertainty, and fear from him. Galahad felt whole for the first time in many years. Tears came to his eyes and he began to cry, a mixture of joy, relief and shock. 

Sioned held the knight in her arms and spoke soothingly to him as he wept. 

“Listen to me, little raven—I love you still, like you are my own child. You are brave, you are worthy. You will live a long life full of honor beyond measure! You will be the greatest knight the world, greater even than Lancelot. And there will be others who will love you and treasure you as you deserve. Your parents are the weak ones. You have paid more than enough for their cowardice, Galahad. You owe them nothing more!”

Galahad heard the words and understood them, but he was more absorbed by the feeling of peace. The entire exchange had only taken a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity that he never wanted to end. 

Sioned suddenly gasped sharply and cried out. Galahad pulled himself from the embrace and looked into wide, startled eyes. A dagger—Sioned’s dagger—was plunged into her side all the way to the hilt, blood pouring from the wound. As she slumped and fell over to the ground, he saw the bloodied, bruised Lancelot kneeling behind her, an expression of triumph twisting his mouth. 

Galahad’s vision darkened. With an animal-like scream, he launched himself at the older knight, knocking him to the ground. Galahad began beating his father savagely, his fist pounding the hated face again and again. Lancelot was soon beaten into unconsciousness again. Galahad drew his own dagger and held it high over his father’s chest.

“Galahad! No!” Sioned called hoarsely. Hearing her voice, Galahad recovered his senses, realized what he had been about to do. He threw the dagger away in disgust and stumbled back to Sioned. He tried to staunch her bleeding, but he could clearly see that the wound was mortal, and cried out in despair and frustration.

She reached out and gently touched his damaged face. “My poor Galahad! I didn’t think to bring my salves with me. You will wear a scar for the rest of your life, now.”

Struggling to breathe, she placed her other hand on his face so that she held his face between them, and looked fiercely into his eyes. 

“NEVER forget how much I love you, Galahad!” Her voice grew weaker as death drew closer.

“No!” he pleaded helplessly. “Sioned, please! I need you...." She took his blood-stained hand in her own and squeezed it weakly.

“We will meet again soon enough, in Annwn. Travel well until then, my little raven.” With a final reassuring smile, she slipped away. 

“Travel well, my sister”, he whispered, the salt of his tears stinging as they flooded into the wounds on his face.

2017 CE  
Galahad’s 1,545th Year

The sleepy Caretaker of the Metropolitan Public Library stepped out of the steaming shower, grabbed the thick white towel from the rack and dried himself off. He wrapped the towel around his waist and padded carefully in his bare feet over to the vanity, swiped a clear spot into the fogged glass and took a moment to peer into the mirror. As he had done nearly every morning for over a millennium and a half, he ran his hand over the stiff whiskers and decided he needed to shave. 

Ignoring a long lifetime’s accumulation of scars and injuries on his arms and chest, the old knight carefully wetted the soap in his shaving cup and lathered it up with the brush. He picked up the old-fashioned straight-razor and checked the blade. Satisfied that it was sharp enough to do the job, he loaded up the brush with lather and raised it to his face. Just as he was about to slather the thick soap onto his skin, the sight of a long, very old scar on his face caught his eye and stayed his hand.

It was well over fifteen hundred years old, but it was still clearly visible. It began on the brow over his right eye, then threaded across the bridge and down the right side of his nose, ending on his cheek. He was fortunate not to have lost his eye to the injury his own father had so savagely inflicted on him all those centuries ago. 

He shook his head at the reflection in the mirror, giving it a rueful smirk. Every time he saw a reflection of his face, he saw the scar, and he always remembered that day, how Sioned saved his life that day, saved his soul. He warmly remembered her love for him, and wondered again at the irony that a reminder of such hatred could at the same time be a reminder of such love. There had been times, he was ashamed to admit, when he HAD forgotten her, but more often than not her words and the memory of her unconditional love for him had gotten him through many a dark period in his long, eventful life. As terrible as that long-ago day had been, he would always be grateful for that fateful meeting on a battlefield. 

Jenkins finished shaving and got dressed. As he also did nearly every morning for over a millennium and a half, he went to the kitchen and opened a bottle of ale. As he passed through the Annex workroom, Ezekiel and Jacob, up early to research a project together, couldn’t help but notice the tall man as he sauntered through the room carrying a bottle of beer at 7:00 am. They exchanged puzzled glances, then jumped up to follow the Caretaker.

Jenkins made the long walk out to the Annex’s front door. He stepped through the iron grating and out into the cool morning sunshine. Turning to the east, he faced the rising sun. After clearing his throat he lifted the brown glass bottle high and quietly prayed in the way of the ancient Ergyngi.

“I, Sir Galahad of Camelot, offer this ale to the honor of Sioned ferch Ifan, now living forever in the joyful lands of Annwn. I thank you, my sister, for your kindness to me, for your love and your encouragement, and I humbly ask your guidance in all of my affairs and your blessing on all of my loved ones. I look forward to the day when we shall meet again.” He tipped the bottle and slowly poured the golden ale onto the dewy grass in front of him, saving only a small sip for himself. He swallowed the ale, then bowed. “Travel well, my sister.”

After a moment of quiet meditation, Jenkins turned and walked back toward the Annex. He spotted Jacob and Ezekiel standing in the open doorway, both wearing amused grins. It annoyed Jenkins that they had spied on him, but he carefully kept his face blank as he approached. When he was close enough, Jones pointed with his chin to the place where Jenkins had poured the libation.

“What was that all about, Jenkins?” he asked, a note of laughter in his voice. “Pourin’ a forty for your homies?” He nudged Stone with his elbow at the joke. “I had no idea you were so street, mate!” 

“I’ve told you before, Mr. Jones,” replied the old knight, completely deadpan as he glanced imperiously down his scarred nose at the young thief. “I’m paid in full.” 

And without another word, he continued on his way into the Annex.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As usual, any feedback is appreciated.
> 
> A Note Regarding the Dates: According to Sir Thomas Malory's "Le Morte d'Arthur", Galahad was knighted "Four hundred winters and four and fifty accomplished after the passion of our Lord Jesu Christ". He would've been fourteen/fifteen years old. Doing the math using 33AD as the date of Christ's Passion, that makes Jenkins's year of birth 473 AD, and his age 1,545 years old as of 2017.


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